


You Can Call Me Honey, But I Just Might Sting

by thefairfleming



Series: The Long Way To You [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-09
Updated: 2014-09-09
Packaged: 2018-02-16 19:27:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2281782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefairfleming/pseuds/thefairfleming





	You Can Call Me Honey, But I Just Might Sting

She does it on purpose.

Nothing his wife does is without intent. It’s one of her more appealing characteristics, if he’s honest, the deliberateness of Margaery. The women before her had been more rash, blunter and more direct, and only a year ago, he would have said he had no patience for women who played games, who said one thing with their mouths and another with their eyes.

That was before he learned just how enjoyable some games could be.

This is a favorite of hers, waiting until they’re somewhere in public, and she can say something shocking low in his ear. Tonight, it’s at the opening of a new exhibit in the Royal Gallery, and Jon is tense enough in his new suit, feeling the heat of so many eyes and camera lenses on him as he does his best to look appropriately interested without scowling (Margaery has warned him that his default expression has a tendency to “look terribly grim, darling.”) He is focusing so much on keeping his face carefully schooled that he doesn’t even register Margaery stepping a bit closer to him as he peers at a case full of artifacts. She slips an arm through his, and rises a bit to whisper in his ear. To the observer, it would simply seem that she was commenting on the display.

But what she murmurs, low enough only for Jon to hear, is, “You’re concentrating so hard, my love. Reminds me of your face when I have my lips around your cock.”

Early in their marriage that would have been enough to make Jon startle and possibly spill his champagne. Now, his fingers just tighten around the stem of his glass, and he takes a deep breath. When he looks down at Margaery, she’s already pulling back, a little smirk on her mouth- that mouth that suddenly he can’t stop staring at- and lifting her own champagne flute in the tiniest of salutes.

And then she is drifting off to talk to some ancient aristocrat, and while she might not sway her hips, Jon has to fight very hard to keep his gaze from dropping lower as she walks away.

She will be the death of him, this woman.

He tells her that later that night, once they’re safely alone in her suite and he has her backed against the wall, hands braced on either side of her head

Grinning, Margaery just yanks at his belt. “Oh, shush,” she tells him, lifting her head to press a nipping kiss against his jaw. “You did a very good job being unaffected by me this evening.”

“ _Pretending_ to be unaffected,” he corrects. “Could we go to one official function without you making me want to throw you down on the nearest horizontal surface?”

His belt slides through the loops easily, and Margaery gives a triumphant, “Ah!” as she tosses the leather aside, hands falling the the button of his slacks. Jon keeps his hands right where they are, and her own fingers still as she looks up at him, eyes very blue underneath her lashes.

“Aren’t you going to touch me?” she asks, and he shakes his head.

“Practicing,” he tells her with a little jerk of his chin. “If you’re going to make resisting you a full time challenge, I need to make sure I can withstand any-,” he sucks a breath in as Margaery lets her palm slide over the front of his trousers, her expression deceptively innocent.

“Provocation,” Jon finally manages to grit out, and Margaery’s smile turns a little more devious. She presses closer, her lips hot on Jon’s neck, and he closes his eyes as her teeth find his earlobe.

“Mmm, so does that mean you’re going to stand there and let me do anything my heart desires?”

The words make him clench his teeth as a thousand filthy images unspool in his mind. For a woman who comes across so cool and collected, Margaery has a lot of desires, many of which she’s enacted with him, and the idea of trying to stay unmoved while she does whatever she wants with him…

A shudder runs through him, and when Margaery pulls back to look at him, she’s practically purring.

He waits for her to lay her hands on him, to sink to her knees and unfasten his trousers and use her clever mouth and wicked tongue to make him come apart.

Jon’s whole body feels like a tautly strung wire, but rather than have her way with him, Margaery takes a small step back until she’s flush against the wall in front of him. His hands still bracket her shoulders, and he’s shocked his nails haven’t actually ripped into the expensive wallpaper yet. It’s dim in the room, only the glow of the security lights outside penetrating Margaery’s thin, gauzy curtains, but he can still see the gleam in her eyes as she slowly lifts her arms above her head, the fingers of her left hand lazily encircling her right wrist.

“That’s no fun at all, then,” she tells him, holding herself still. “If you won’t touch me, I suppose I won’t touch you, either. We can _both_ practice. Learn self-control like proper royals.”

Jon takes a deep breath through his nose. They’re only inches apart, her breasts practically brushing his chest, her elbows almost touching the insides of his forearms. Jon can feel the subtle heat of her body, and he could duck his head and taste her mouth in an instant, but instead, he holds himself just as still, surprised to feel a slow grin stretching his face.

Another game, another little power play in the bedroom that he should hate, and yet watching Margaery’s blue eyes light up, seeing the way her teeth bite into her bottom lip as she shifts against the silk wallpaper…

He loves it.

“I can stand here a long time,” he warns her, and she lifts one foot, kicking off her high heel. As she toes off the second one, her ankle brushes his calf, and Jon jolts, his heart hammering from just that little touch.

Margaery’s laugh is slightly breathless as she draws back her foot. “Can you now?”

“That’s cheating,” he answers, bending his knee so that it just barely nudges hers, the motion making her open her legs just the littlest bit.

“And that’s not?” Her voice is still sharp, her tone arch, but Jon can see how wide her pupils are now, can hear how fast her breath is coming.

But he doesn’t make another move to touch her, leaving his bent knee close enough to hers that if he moved an inch, he could have it between her thighs. And while her hands never move from their loosely held position over her head, he could swear she’s arched her back a fraction of an inch, positioning her hips so that they’re barely a whisper away from his.

Jon is not sure he’s ever been this hard in his entire life.

He has no idea how long they stand there, watching each other and not moving as outside, he can hear the distant sound of tires on gravel, of all the various people who keep the castle working even as their king sleeps.

But inside the queen’s suite, Jon is achingly awake, achingly aware of everything. Of the soft gleam of Margaery’s hair, curling over one shoulder. Of the rasp of her dress as she breathes, of the soft, sweet scent of her perfume and the way her eyes move over him as if her gaze is as good as touching him.

“See?” she says after a long, long while. “We’re doing so well, the pair of us.”

“Models of restraint,” Jon says, his voice hoarse.

Margaery nods seriously. “Indeed. Respectable.”

“Regal, even.”

That makes one corner of her mouth kick up in one of those smiles he sees so rarely from her, the real ones that tell him he’s somehow surprised her. Pleased her.

But then she schools her expression once again into that faux-serious mien and says, “I’m only thinking respectable, regal things as well. Certainly not thinking about your mouth.”

That nearly breaks through Jon’s enforced reserve, and his fingers curl against the wall.

Clearing his throat, he makes himself say, “If you were thinking about my mouth-,”

“Not that a queen thinks of such base things,” she interrupts with a little frown, and Jon wants to kiss it right off her lips.

Instead, he gives an assenting nod that brings his face even closer to hers. “Of course not. But if you weren’t queen…,”

With a luxuriant sigh, Margaery stretches her arms higher above her head, letting them slide up the wall, fingers still cuffing one wrist. “Oh, well, if I weren’t a queen, I suppose I’d think about all the places that mouth might kiss me.”

Jon’s head nearly swims at that, hands once again convulsively clenching only inches from her. “Your mouth for starters, I’d guess,” he says, ducking his head close enough that he can feel her breath on his face.

“Mmm,” she agrees, and suddenly Jon realizes she’s moved closer, too, close enough that her hips are brushing his. “Always a good place to start with kissing. But then- since I would be just a base woman having these thoughts- I suppose I’d imagine you kissing a bit lower as well.”

Jon’s hands slide down the wall until they’re even with her hips, another motion that seems to have brought them even closer together. “Your neck?” he asks, his voice low. “That doesn’t seem all that bad. That’s almost-,” he leans closer so that he can almost taste the silken skin of her throat, “dignified, really.”

Margaery is nearly panting now, and Jon feels slightly dizzy, possibly from the fact that he’s not sure there’s any blood left in his head.

“Oh, no,” Margaery answers, her eyes fluttering shut for just a moment. “The neck is very dignified, and if I were not a dignified woman, I’m sure I wouldn’t be thinking of that. No, I’d be thinking lower still.”

Bending his elbows, Jon brings himself even closer so that his chest is pressed tighter to hers. It’s still not breaking the rules, he’s decided, since he’s not using his hands to touch her.

 _Rules_?  he wonders dimly. Since when did he start making rules for _her_ games?

But then Margaery’s lips open in a delicate little O of pleasure at the contact, and Jon decides he likes making- and possibly breaking- rules.

“Ah,” he says, pressing even closer. “Here, you mean?”

“Mmm,” she sighs, rubbing against him just enough to make Jon think he might lose his mind. “That’s certainly less dignified than imagining you kissing my mouth or my neck.”

Jon leans closer. “Still, not all that ‘base.’” He drops his voice to a whisper, breath stirring a loose strand of hair by her ear. “I think you can do better.”

“You’re right,” Margaery says, and how her arms are dropping so that her hands rest on his shoulders. Jon lifts his head, meaning to chide her for breaking first, but then she looks at him and says, “When I say ‘lower,’ I mean I’d like your mouth on my cunt.”

Jon has her back against the wall almost before she’s finished speaking, one hand fisted in her hair, the other gripping her hip as he seals their lips together, tongue stroking along hers in a promise of what he means to do between her legs as soon as he can get this damn dress of off her.

In the end, he decides undressing her will take too long, and simply shoves it up to her waist, dropping to his knees to go down on her right next to the window in front of all those portraits of all those ancestors. For all that Margaery excels at playing cool and collected in public, she is nothing but hot and uninhibited in their bed, and tonight is no different. One leg over his shoulder, she tugs at his hair, cries all sorts of filthy things, begs him, moves against him so shamelessly that Jon thinks he could do this forever and never get tired of it. That’s the thing with Margaery’s games; they may start with teasing and power plays, but they almost always end up like this, in something raw and good and honest.

Something real.

He makes her come twice right there against the wall, and she’s still trying to catch her breath as Jon rises to his feet, and without so much as a warning, puts a shoulder gently to her stomach and lifts her up, one arm around her thighs, her hair trailing down his back as she gives a little shriek and swats at his hip. “Jon!”

He only slaps her bum in retaliation, carrying her to their bed as she protests, “This is hardly very regal.”

“Thought we were done pretending to be regal,” he counters, and when he lays her down on her ridiculously soft sheets, Margaery props up on both elbows and watches him with that little smirk he’s grown so fond of. Her dress still ruched up her thighs, her hair a mess, a lips slightly swollen from kissing, she looks younger and softer than Jon is used to, and it tugs something deep inside his chest.

“You’re hopeless,” she tells him, but her eyes are already narrowing with interest as he begins to unbutton his shirt.

“Me?” he counters, jerking his head back towards the spot by the window. “You lost that little match back there, love.”

“Rematch?” she asks, going to sit up against the headboard, but even as she does, Jon is already reaching out to grasp one ankle and pull her back down the bed and closer to him.

“Not a bloody chance. I think I’m done with not touching you.”

Smiling, Margaery settles back in the sheets, arms once again stretched over her head. “I suppose I can find that agreeable.” The smile turns sharp in a way that makes Jon’s blood race. “Provided I get to do my share of touching as well. Turnabout is fair play, after all.”

And as Jon climbs onto the bed, covering her body with his own, he hopes Margaery never stops playing her games.


End file.
